Ginny and the Sorting Hat
by shadow2341343
Summary: Ginny has a surprising conversation with the Sorting Hat.


Ginny stood in the circular office her pulse pounding inside her head. A thin layer of sweat had erupted along her skin. This was the first time she had been caught. She wondered if she would shatter like a piece of brittle glass under Dumbledore's first questions. Lying to the headmaster made her feel sick inside. Seeing his disappointed visage made her feel even worse.  
  
She wondered if Fred and George had ever been in a situation like this. It seemed unlikely. Even if they were caught, as she had been, they would have still had each other. Jokes and reminiscences could be shared while they waited for one of the teachers or maybe Dumbledore himself.  
  
Her face still felt hot. It was probably burning bright red. Sprinting through the halls, arms slashing air, legs pumping, and her robes fluttering had made for one of her more exciting exits. Usually when she pulled a prank, no one found out. That was where their inherent beauty lay.  
  
When she thought back to that Slytherin boy's face, Ginny couldn't help but grin.  
  
"Proud Ms. Weasley?" asked a voice from one of the shelves.  
  
Ginny jumped. Her heart had been racing from her unexpected capture, but now it was thrashing inside her as if it expected to get out. Instinctively, her hand went down to her wand. Only when she was gripping the wooden shaft, seven inches, ancient oak, lined with fairy dust, did she realize that she was safe. Nothing bad could happen in Dumbledore's office.  
  
"Cat got your tongue?" the voice asked. This time she spotted its source. A tattered hat sat on one of the shelves, interestingly wearing a smug grin.  
  
"Uh, no, I just make sure I know who I'm talking to before I respond," Ginny replied, approaching the shelf. "I wouldn't want to admit something accidentally."  
  
"Still as sly as I thought," answered the hat. "You were the hardest Weasley child to place. Even Percy, with his raging ambition was easier." The Sorting Hat sighed, "The others were easier. I believe I shall miss the Weasleys until more of you come."  
  
"There aren't any more."  
  
"Not yet," the Hat grinned at her. When Ginny couldn't think of anything else to say, the Sorting Hat asked, "Is it still true?"  
  
"What?" Ginny asked, her brows furrowed.  
  
"Are you still in love?"  
  
"Love? I don't think I've ever really been in love."  
  
"You might be sly, but you do not lie very well," declared the Sorting Hat. "You remember. I can see it in your freckled expression." Ginny's silence prompted the Hat to continue. "When I first Sorted you I told you two things. First I said that you would do well no matter which house I placed you. Those are always the hardest, when you'll go anywhere, it's hard to figure out where you'd go best."  
  
Ginny pursed her lips, wondering what he would say next. The Hat paused, like it was hoping she would say something; when she didn't it continued, "Then I asked you to which house would you like to belong."  
  
"I said Gryffindor."  
  
"And I inquired as to why. One of the hardest things about Sorting, something few witches or wizards ever realize is that the answer might be right, but they need to understand why the answer is right."  
  
"So you asked me why I wanted to be in Gryffindor."  
  
The Hat's grin grew wider, "Yes. You answered that everyone in your family had been in Gryffindor. That wasn't good enough for me. After all, nepotism is a terrible practice. It promotes laziness." The Hat paused, as if remembering something Ginny couldn't imagine. She knew the Hat was more than a thousand years old. She couldn't conceive some of the thoughts and minds it touched while Sorting.  
  
A few heartbeats passed, Ginny noticed that her body seemed to be calming, and the Hat resumed, "I knew, just by feeling your nervous shudders that you weren't being entirely honest."  
  
"Yes I was!"  
  
"You were probably just nervous, unable to think clearly. That, or you didn't realize your ulterior motivation. You were in love with a boy, one whom I Sorted just the previous year."  
  
Ginny whispered, "Harry."  
  
"Yes, Potter. As I was being taken back to this office, I glanced your face. It was the darkest shade of red that I have ever seen. After all of my years, you should be proud."  
  
"For blushing?" Ginny asked, incredulous.  
  
"Be proud of all of your achievements. So, are you still in love with him?"  
  
"It was a crush."  
  
"No, Ms. Weasley, it was not. In fact, I can see, looking at you now, that your feelings have grown even stronger now."  
  
"You're wrong Sorting Hat, I've been over Harry for a long time. We're just friends. Nothing more. We won't ever be anything more."  
  
"That's what you keep telling yourself. You bury your feelings, perhaps starting relationships with others." Ginny blinked. Did the Sorting Hat just wink at her? "But you know what? That's not a bad idea. Even as you grow more mature, and stronger, so do your feelings. You bury your feelings, and without realizing it, you buried a seed. I think it'll grow into a might sensation. You'll enjoy it. Even better, you'll be ready for it."  
  
"But he doesn't care about me." Her voice was only just above a whisper.  
  
"With enough time, anything is possible Ms. Weasley. Have faith, and remember that your love makes you stronger."  
  
Ginny looked up, suddenly terrified. Standing atop the stairs leading into his office was Professor Dumbledore. He was watching her intently, his piercing eyes locked onto her with his seemingly omniscient gaze.   
  
"Enlightening conversation?" he asked, smiling.  
  
"Yes sir." Ginny's heart was thrashing again.  
  
"Good, you may leave."  
  
As Ginny left, dumbfounded, perplexed, befuddled and everyone other word meaning confused. As she wandered through the halls, she wondered if the reason she was told to go to Dumbledore's office wasn't because she had been caught, but because she needed to talk to the Sorting Hat.  
  
With nebulous feelings, she went back to Gryffindor Tower. 


End file.
